


Broviets before Soviets: A Love Story

by ElwritesFanworks



Category: Papers Please (Video Game)
Genre: (kind of), Anxiety, Atmospheric, Bad Weather, Boredom, Bromance to Romance, Cigarettes, Cold Weather, Crack Treated Seriously, Drinking & Talking, F/M, Fatherhood, Fear, Infidelity, M/M, Paranoia, Politics, Propaganda, Sexual Experimentation, Snow and Ice, Soviet Union, Stress, Vodka, Winter, Workplace
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-14 21:15:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7190702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElwritesFanworks/pseuds/ElwritesFanworks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Silly title aside, this was the result of me thinking that the Inspector seemed lonely in spite of his family, and that Calensk's visits made the bad days bearable. Somehow that turned into bicurious border guard love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

It is the dead of winter. With the frost seeping into the Inspector’s bones, that foreign idiom finally makes sense. It is always cold in Arstotzka, but only in the city does he feel the chill of death.

He is physically aching for a cigarette. He has not been able to afford this vice of late. He feels a stab of envy in his gut whenever a man or women walks in, reeking of tobacco.

“Next.”

Someone else shuffles into the booth. He doesn’t look up, busy sorting through the clutter on his desk. He’s obsessive about stacking things – keeping all the edges straight. Little, neat piles: the semblance of control.

“Papers, please.”

“Hello.”

The Inspector looks up and his face breaks into a rare grin.

“Ah, Calensk. My apologies. Good morning.”

The bit of money slides across the Inspector’s desk, for which he is grateful. He pockets it quickly, and is about to dismiss the guard when a thought strikes him.

“Calensk – could I... buy from you... a cigarette...?”

The guard furrows his brow.

“No, but I can share.”

He retrieves one from his pocket and pushes it, and his matchbox, into the Inspector’s waiting hands. He fumbles one out of the box, sticks it in his mouth, and lights it with a soft groan.

“Ah,” he rumbles, pleased. “You save my life – a week I’ve gone without. I feel like someone else.”

Calensk nods.

“Tried to quit once,” he admits. “For my wife – she hates the smell. I lasted eight days before I gave up.”

“Well, I’m glad, heh! Thank you for this.”

“No trouble.”

The man leaves, and then it is back to work. The process, as always, is both monotonous and acutely stressful. The Inspector has not been sleeping well and it is taking its toll. Every time he doubts himself – every time he forgets something and has to look it up, he is conscious of the ticking of the clock. He must work faster if he is to excel in his position. The result is that he hovers between states of fear and boredom. There is, he thinks, a border crossing in his mind. Who, then, is the inspector between his ears, to moderate his thoughts? It cannot be himself – he is already at work.

He dreads the _‘chtrrrr'_ of printing paper, the noise of a violation, a blemish on his record. He is lucky, this day, for when the last person is processed he still has not heard the sound. Shrugging on his overcoat, tugging on his gloves and hat, winding himself up in his scarf, the Inspector is smiling. A day without incident – and a cigarette, too.

The snow has risen outside his booth so that the door catches when he first pushes it open. It is up to his ankles everywhere except in front of his shuttered window where stretches instead a slushy trail as far as his eye can see, marking the place where the line had stood. He walks home humming to himself. All in all, a good day.


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

The boy has had a fever for two days, and now the father is exhausted. The day before, he made mistakes that cost him 5 credits. His wife became ill in the morning. There is little money and so, the Inspector does not eat breakfast, or bring any food for the day.

It is colder now, impossibly, the snow thick and impenetrable – up to his knees. His breath condenses and freezes in his beard and his hands are numb in his gloves. His stomach twists with hunger as he opens his booth for the day, shaking the snow off his hat and shoulders.

“Next.”

A fat man from Kolechia coughs in his face. The man’s documentation is expired by two weeks. He sneezes into his hand before passing the papers to the Inspector.

“Denied.”

He hopes the man would make a fuss, that he may be detained, but no such luck today.

“Entry is not guaranteed. Next.”

Imbeciles! Has everyone today forgotten their brains in their home countries? Only one native Arstotzkan today, all his papers in order. As the Inspector stamps his passport, he feels a brief flicker of joy, but that is quickly dispelled when the man coughs and spits – _spits –_ into his own hand as he takes his documents back. The Inspector’s skin crawls.

His is allowed ten minutes break. Enough for a smoke, a piss, or a meal – only one of the three. Often the Inspector laments how short the time seems, but without any food to eat, it stretches on forever.

Someone knocks on the shutter of his booth, which he’d closed so as to not be accosted by impatient travelers as he sits and wishes he was full. It is Calensk, flushed from the cold.

“I’m sharing the heat,” he says simply. “You mind…?”

“No.”

They sit for a minute in silence.

“You do not eat?” Calensk asks, and the Inspector shoots him a look. He doesn’t want to complain – not when other, smarter men can manage their family affairs without difficulty. Calensk must see the shame in his eyes because the guard wordlessly reaches into his coat pocket and produces something wrapped in brown paper. He opens it – bread smeared with lard, sprinkled liberally with salt. He breaks the potion in half.

“You want…?”

The Inspector is too hungry to refuse.

The meal goes down, rich and filling. The fat is thick and cold, but it will be enough protein to last both men and will burn hot in their bellies. The salt is a pleasant touch, and the bread, though stale, is heavy and dark. The Inspector eats quickly and greedily, and when the last crumb is gone, sucks the residue of grease from his fingers. He catches Calensk looking at him and flushes a deep red.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, wiping his fingers on his handkerchief.

“No trouble,” Calensk says, just like before. Then, “My wife makes good soup. Always she is making too much for just two. I hate to waste.”

The Inspector is startled by the gesture. It is uncommonly kind.

“You come to my apartment – I can give you some to take home.”

Calensk looks at him expectantly. The Inspector finds himself nodding his head.

“I have no car,” he says, even as he agrees. Calensk nods.

“We take subway.”


End file.
